


A Double Bluff

by a_different_equation



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes - John Taylor
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Puns, Case Fic, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Isolation, It's getting hot in here, John Watson is a Saint, M/M, Sherlock Holmes is a Bit Not Good, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23509066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_different_equation/pseuds/a_different_equation
Summary: So it may be that you prefer to forget my secret, my dear Watson, rather than consent to becoming a prisoner in 221b for what might be several days.This was the lie Holmes told Watson during the case later published under the title 'An Inscrutable Masquerade'. However, it was not only the detective that tricked the public: There was something else going on during the self-isolation in Baker Street...
Relationships: Lestrade & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23
Collections: Isolated Johnlock Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This short story is set in John Taylor’s universe, which is basically a very well-written ACD pastiche series. 
> 
> Taylor published two short story collection, _The Unopened Casebook of Sherlock Holmes_ and _Sherlock Holmes: Rediscovered Railway Mysteries & Other Stories_. _A Double Bluff_ is inspired by _An Inscrutable Masquerade_ (2010/2015). You might know this one because of the audio book narrated by Benedict Cumberbatch. Exactly, it’s the one with the “back entrance”...^^
> 
> However, you have neither read nor listen to anything by John Taylor to enjoy my OS. 
> 
> I’m forever grateful for sanguinity who beta read major parts of this. All remaining errors are my own. 
> 
> Stay safe, everyone!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are locked up in 221b. It's for a case, or so the detective has said. However, his intimate companion cannot shake off the feeling that something else is going on.

In a drawer in a bureau in an upstairs room of our retirement home in Sussex, there is a locked cedar wood box that I inherited as a youth from my grandfather. This is, one might say, my box of secrets.

For many years since it has been the repository of an archive, admittedly a ragged and disordered archive, a collection of notes and some scribbling concerning some of the most interesting cases of my lifelong friend and partner, the consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes.

Cases that for one reason or another, I never took the trouble to write into proper reports.

Having recently a little time on my hands because Holmes was occupied with his bees, I reopened this box of yellowing notebooks, and it seemed to me that several cases, giving the notion of time between those events and the present day, would now bear telling.

I begin by chronicling an adventure that I may have dismissed for several reasons, not because it lacked baffling and intriguing elements, on the contrary, but mostly I think because it was for me, personally, such a dizzying and distressing experience.

So distressing, in fact, that the outcome might have resulted in me leaving Baker Street, Holmes, and our life together, for good.

* * *

It was a Wednesday evening in July of the year 1895, at the end of a day of steaming, jagging heat, and I sat next to Holmes in our parlour in Baker Street, drinking in the air and hoping for the little ripple of a breeze.

The newspaper on my lap reported the release from police custody of a known criminal, Tobias Organ, arrested some days previously for the murder of Max Zimmermann, a moneylender, who was shot through the head in his small apartment in Murrow Street. In the end, there been insufficient evidence to charge Organ with murder. Even the police thought him clearly capable of it.

Strangely enough, I had once met Organ myself. He had come to me as a patient, suffering, as I recall from a severe lesion in the lower back which he maintained was caused by a fall against a metal stanchion but which I had little doubt was in fact a stab wound. My diagnosis was supported, I believe, by his barely veiled threat that I should under no circumstances make known his injuries to anyone else. He had an unforgettable, menacing way of him and I had felt immense relief when he left my surgery.

I had been looking forward to discussing the Organ case with Holmes who would certainly have some views on the subject.

However, when he finally appeared for dinner he was irritable and uncommunicative, and from these symptoms, I guessed him in a process of some pressing mental work.

All the same, I had no wish to sit out a meal in silence.

Therefore, I tried to start a conversation. It was not like the early days of our acquaintance during which I thought Holmes all above idle chatter.

After his return, after we became more intimate than the current law would allow two men to be, I learned that I am the exception for Mr Sherlock Holmes in many things; one of which is that he does not mind me meddling. It pleased him as he admitted to me in the secret of our bedchamber once that even when he is deep in thoughts and lost to the world, he can trust in his companion to be there when he emerges again.

I waited another minute or so, and then I said while peppering a slice of beef: “Stifling weather to be out and about, Holmes.”

“Indeed, Watson. And equally stifling to be in.”

He busied himself with cutting into a potato. After a while I said: “I have not seen you today. I presume you were somewhere on business.”

“Yes, Watson. I was.”

Another pause. A shook of cutlery.

“Somewhere local?”

“Somewhere very local, Watson. I expect you like to know where.”

“I wish to be not intrusive.”

“In the basement. I been all day in the basement of our house. And since your desire to be not intrusive is clearly going against your overwhelming curiosity to know I will tell you why I was there.” He paused and smiled, and then he continued: “In the full confidence that you not breathe a word to a soul about it.”

“Well, of course not, Holmes!”

“And on the understanding that if I do tell you that you will be not be able to leave this house until my work is completed.”

“What?”

I put down, almost dropped, my knife and fork. “You don’t mean ‘not leave at all’?”

“That’s precisely what I mean. So it may be that you prefer to forget my secret rather than consent to becoming a prisoner here what might be several days.”

Hopelessly intrigued, I gave no thought to the discomfort to be shut indoors in this heat, to the boredom, or to the fact that I had appointments on my own.

My Holmes knew me too well, the devil! Once more he tricked me and I played along willingly, as it has been since 1881.

“I am prepared to abide by your request, Holmes.”

He stood up from the table and went across to the hearth. After retrieving his pipe and tobacco patch, he filled his pipe and lit it. Then he sank into his beloved armchair.

“I believe that you have been preoccupied by the Case of Tobias Organ, Watson.”

“Yes, it has been on my mind. How...?”

“You left the newspaper twice open at that page. The moneylender, Zimmermann, a legitimate businessman with a wife and two young children, was murdered with an army rifle. The police have many reasons to believe Organ to be the culprit; one of these is that Organ owns an army rifle. Organ, of course, denies that his army rifle is the murder weapon.”

“Well, I suppose that one would expect he would.”

“But suppose”, said Holmes, “suppose there is a science which could with certainty tie a bullet to a gun fired.”

“That would be marvellous”, I said. “But there isn’t, is there.”

“Well, let us say that such a science is seminal. It is exactly that problem which I am wrestling in the basement of the house. I set up a laboratory of sorts down there where I can conduct some experiments. Progress is promising. If the results are as I expecting, they will certainly send Tobias Organ to the gallows. However, Organ is an utterly ruthless villain. He is undoubting guilty of a number of murders but smart enough to blame it on others. If he would gain even an inkling of my work, you would be in utmost danger.”

“I can see that you would be in danger, Holmes. But how might I be?”

“As I say, Watson, Organ is ruthless. To get at any enemy his favourite trick is to abduct someone close to his adversary. Often with, I am afraid, horrific consequences. You know too much now and since I am not prepared to put at risk in that way I fear you must sit it out in these apartments. You must not answer the door, you must stay away from the window, you must not allow any visitors and you must live the life of a prisoner, until such time that this matter is settled.”

“Well”, I said, “it might be good for me. I have a medical paper to write and a period of confinement might induce me to keep my nose to my studies.”

“Excellent, John. I am sure that your sacrifices will not be in vain.”

While I was still turning this comment over in my head because I was not seeing myself sacrificing very much at all, Holmes surprised me with a kiss on my cheek.

It was a fleeting touch, unexpected but rather welcome. I could not deduce the reason for this but put it on Holmes’ excitement for the upcoming experiment and a thank you for my patience and good will once more.

Whatever has brought this on; it brightened up my mood considerably. Holmes is not the demonstrative sort, and even behind closed doors, he rarely makes an exception in broad daylight.

Therefore, I spent the evening cancelling all appointments for the following week with a smile on my face.

Later, when I went to bed, I was rather looking forward for some days of fruitful incarceration because maybe there might be some more stolen moments when we were both locked away in 221B.

* * *

The morning found me in a hopeful mood for what appeared to be an empty house.

Holmes, I presumed, had already descended to his basement laboratory.

Our landlady, Mrs Hudson, had left me a pleasant, cold breakfast, an indication that she herself had to leave the house early.

The day, while already warm and bright, had not begun to turn oppressive. The clock over the hearth ticked slowly as I settled down to my books, experiencing for the first time since my student years some of the quiet ecstasy of study.

By midday, the room had become hot. My concentration meandered and thirst pained me.

I wandered downstairs to Mrs Hudson’s apartment and found her still absent.

Therefore, I proceeded down to the basement to ask Holmes what arrangements had been made for lunch.

The door to the basement was shut and when I tried the handle, I found it to be locked. From within I could hear the occasional crack what seemed to be a gun being fired and the grind on metal on metal.

I knocked, first with normal force, then louder, and then I raised my voice and called: “Holmes, are you in there?”

“Watson, what are you doing here?”

“I am in process of an investigation.”

“Indeed.”

“I am trying to find out what happens about luncheon.”

“You have to prepare something for yourself,” he called back. “I am afraid I have send Mrs Hudson away. I cannot risk the life of innocent people. And Watson, be so good to stay away from the basement. Confine yourself to our own rooms and to the kitchen, there’s a good fellow.”

“Very well, Holmes, but...”

“Yes?”

“I would very like a newspaper.”

“I am afraid you must do without. Neither of us can take a chance until this business is complete. Now, please, let me get on.”

I trundled to the kitchen. I managed to find some bread and cheese which I took upstairs.

Our rooms were now very hot and since I was forbidden to be near the window, I lunched over my books, dropping crumbs in the creases of Grey’s Anatomy and beginning to feel restless.

After lunch, I get a bit more work done but by three o’clock, I had fallen asleep in the armchair.

I woke to the sounds of evening traffic from Baker Street. I listed to with something like envy to the people outside. They, who were free to go wherever they wish and have family to return home, and who have simply feasts and convivial tables awaiting them there. My lot seemed bleak in comparison.

Holmes did not emerge from his infernal basement and Mrs Hudson did not appear with an evening meal. I cannot recall how the rest of the evening passed.

The heat absorbed during the day now was radiating back to thicken the evening air. The world outside which I had no news became gradually silent and I, hungry and disconsolate, went finally to bed.

Alone, I should add, which was the most distressing element of it all.

It might sound odd but the very man who once warned me about his eccentrics, does make a habit of sharing my bed regularly. Even on nights when we not exhaust ourselves in carnal activities first, he comes to my bedchambers at one point of the night.

I am a light sleeper; medical school and being to war had their part in this, as well as my nightmares from the latter and Holmes’ pretend death at Reichenbach. Therefore, it happens that whenever Holmes crawls into my bed, I wake up.

It is a ritual now, one, I cherish dearly. The quiet settlement in our positions, the shuffle of the blanket, always some light touch, sometimes even a kiss. There were no words exchanged but nothing was unspoken.

With the years, Holmes even let experiments or a case rest for the day to join me earlier or at least rest for a few hours. Therefore, I was terribly aware of his absence.

The heat of the day, the peculiar case, even the confinement in 221 B, it all faded in comparison to the missing man at my side.

* * *

The next morning, after a makeshift breakfast, I got down to some work and was well into the argument of the paper I was writing when I began to realize that the room was becoming airless and oven like.

Determined not to succumb to lethargy as I had the previous afternoon I decided despite Holmes’ strict embargo on going near the window, I simply must have some air.

As I rose, I saw a cab approaching on Baker Street and stopping directly beneath the window. The passenger who stepped out was Nicolas Cartridge. An old university friend now writing for the Times.

We had shared more than a dorm during those days I will admit in these private documents, for no one other than my own (and maybe Holmes). It had been nothing serious; we had parted amiable before I went to join the army.

I had not seen him for a couple of month and he seemed to be paying us a surprised visit.

Desperate as I was for company I could not forget the promise I made to Holmes to attend no visitors.

The doorbell rang.

My first idea was to wait for Cartridge to give up and go away. However, there quickly came a second ring and with it a call from the street through the now open window.

“Watson?”

A note of anxiety in his voice suggesting that not all was well. Cartridge was a good friend. I could not see how I could linger here pretending to be dead when he might be in need of my help.

I dashed down the stairs and opened the front door.

“Watson, so pleased to have found you.”

The statement streaked me immediately as odd. As did Cartridge’s whole demeanour.

However, mindful of the proximity of Holmes in his makeshift laboratory I whispered: “Look old chap, odd things are going on. Come up as quickly as you can, I will explain there.”

A sudden sharp crack issued from the depth from the house and I hoped that preoccupied, as he was Holmes would have no inkling of the presence of my visitor.

As we entered the parlour and shut the door, Cartridge said: “Watson, I’ve been worried about you. I didn’t even know if I would find you here.”

“Worried?”

“Yes. The story in the Gazette. Regarding yourself and Mr Holmes. Did you know it was in the papers?”

“Cartridge. I have not the least idea what you talking about. And as for newspapers, I haven’t seen one in days.”

“Here”, he tossed me the paper on the third or fourth page.

I read the following headline and accompanying article aloud:

> **Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson part company.**
> 
> After several years of celebrated collaboration the eminent consulting detective, Mr Sherlock Holmes, and his medical companion, Dr John Watson, have terminated their professional partnership and it seems simultaneously ended their personal friendship.
> 
> Mr Holmes said that while he continued to held Dr Watson in high esteem and regard him as a man of exceptional honour and professional competence, circumstances in which he could not and would not elaborate had made it necessary to separate ways.
> 
> There was no comment from Dr Watson.

I stood for a moment, holding the newspaper as if it were my lifeline.

My thoughts were in uproar as much as my feelings.

Who had written this?

Did Holmes know about it?

Was there some truth in it? Was Holmes’ exile to the basement a way of keeping me away while he found alternative lodgings?

Was this the end of not only our partnership and friendship, but also of our relationship? Has he abandoned me, left me again, without telling me, with leaving me in the dark?

Was I once again the last to be informed?

“This is today’s Gazette?”

“Yes, Watson. It seems like you know nothing about this.”

“Am I speaking to you as a friend, Cartridge, or as a journalist?”

“Well, I suppose unfortunately as a friend, John. I say unfortunately because this is clearly a damn good story. But if you wished to talk off the record, so be it.”

“Off the record then. I know nothing of this. I did not know if Holmes has a hand in it. He is conducting some very secretive business at present and possibly it is connected to that but that’s all I can tell you, I am afraid.”

“One thing does baffle me”, Cartridge said. “How did the Gazette get the story without asking one of you two? Anyway, I will not make anything of this until you, John, give permission to proceed. But I hope that if there does turn up a story it might be exclusive...”

“You will be the one to get it”, I said. “Thank you, Nicolas.”

I saw him downstairs and closed the front door behind him. Finding myself relieved that he had gone.

I had no idea that I would see him again soon under even more peculiar circumstances.

However, I was determined to confront Holmes with this business.

I knocked on the door of the basement. Loud, and unlike during the midday, with intention and I will admit, emotion flaring high, behind it.

My voice was as steady as I can muster, when I called him: “Holmes?” A long silence. “Holmes, we must speak.”

“Not now, Watson.”

“Holmes, there is something I must discuss with you urgently. Something in the newspaper.”

There was a scuffling at the basement door.

“Newspaper, how did you get a newspaper?”

“Cartridge called. He’s seen an article...”

Holmes interrupted me. “Yes. The article. I dare say that you appreciated an explanation. Give me half an hour.”

* * *

A little later, we sat next to each other in our sitting room. The evening was still close and oppressive.

“The newspaper article”, said Holmes “was an unfortunate necessity. I hope it has not caused you too much of an embarrassment, my dear. And when this business is finished, all will be rectified. I am a man of my word, John.“

“Why newspapers reported we have quarrelled?”

“Bare with me, my dear Watson, I beg you. You know that I have tried to keep my work here secret but how certain can one be about that. The police are involved in these matters and are aware of my experiments. Who knows whether one junior or even senior member of the forces is not involved with this utter ruthless villain? Now, having alerted them the newspaper report might be the case would not be assumed that you would no longer be in London, and he would further assume that you would no longer share this premises with me.”

Finally, the penny dropped: “You gave the story to the Gazette to protect me.”

“Yes, John. That was my purpose.”

“I just wished that you consulted me first.”

“You were not even supposed to know about it, my dear. And had you not a visit from Cartridge, you have never seen the article. It was unfortunate that he came when he did.”

“It was the article that brought him.”

“Yes and a miscalculation on my part. I should have deduced that you both shared more than a dorm room at university. Do not deny it, John, it is alarmingly obvious, at least, to me, now. Spare me the details. I am not a jealous man, John. So, stop whatever you want to say. Now, it is late and work to do tomorrow. I must insist on extracting you another guarantee.”

“What’s that Holmes?”

“That you under no circumstances interrupt my work again. They are very delicate and any disturbance in an inopportune moment could ruin everything. Everything is that clear. Under any circumstances. Promise me, John.“

* * *

That night I lay awake in a muggy heat, bedclothes pulled away and grieved what I calculated the death of my reputation.

Yet, I know that I was not the real reason for my agony. I might have always cared more about society’s opinion than Holmes has done but I know that the real reason run deeper.

I have no living kin on British soil, I survived Afghanistan, there are always places where a doctor is needed, no reputation required. There are options but they were not one for me anymore. I closed those doors for a reason, without hesitation or doubt, when I consented to becoming a true intimate partner of Mr Sherlock Holmes.

Wherever he is I follow. However, how can I follow him when he left me willingly in the dark?

Further, I missed him.

Treacherous body, foolish organ, I wanted to be angry with him. I wanted to demand that he speak up. He is the man who knows the best, he knows, he knows that he can trust me.

I longed for an explanation, and even more, a confirmation, in words and in action, that he knows about the depth of our partnership.

Such thoughts polluted my restless brain and tormented my sub consciousness. In addition, adding to all this lay a sense that all was not clear, that something crucial remained unspoken.

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens. An ex-lover of Watson makes an appeareance. A lot of things are still not clear. 
> 
> Day 2 and 3 of the self-isolation at 221b Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to the 2nd chapter of "A Double Bluff"!
> 
> The update took a bit longer - apologies - but I couldn't stop writing... so much in fact that the story will have THREE chapters. 
> 
> So, hopefully we'll see us all again when Dr Watson tells the part John Taylor forget to mention (hint: the love that dare not speak its name).
> 
> Until then: have fun with ch2 & stay safe!

For the third time this week, I woke early and alone.

Dressed in a haze, I rushed to prepare breakfast.

Mrs Hudson was still absent, and my mood hadn’t improved over night, so I decided to not offer a cup of tea to Holmes. He had insisted to not disturb him, had he not?

It might be petty of me but all this obscure ongoing was distressing me. Normally, when we had had a lover’s quarrel, a “little domestic” as Mrs Hudson loved to call it behind closed doors, we had made up in no-time.

Normally I would storm out to my club, Holmes would torture the violin in reaction, and if all was lost, we would both have it out in the box ring. There Holmes would participate and I would enjoy a little gamble – and always to bet on my man, of course – and later, I would patch him up.

Afterwards, we would indulge in a private game, a cockfight – one might call it – highly illegal of course, but it had pleased us both always very much.

* * *

The doorbell rang.

The noises from the cellar did not pause so I assumed that Holmes had not heard it. I couldn’t see the front of the house from the kitchen window but after a few steps into the lobby it became clear by the means of a side window that the visitor was once again Nicolas Cartridge.

I went to the door and admitted him.

“Cartridge?”

“What’s going on, Watson?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what game is being played here.”

“Cartridge? I have no idea what you are referring to. You better come up.”

He was, I could tell, steaming with anger.

His normally pale face was flushed, his skin colour almost reaching the colour of his facial hair. His eyes were blazing.

Not that I had any idea what I could have done to arouse it.

In the living room, he would not sit, he stood, with his arms behind his back, a man prepared to deliver an accusation.

He had refused tea as well as biscuits, the latter being suspicious as he loved sweets. In our youth Nicolas had had a stomach ache regularly on his birthdays, as he had overindulged in cake. I had been envious of him, as he could eat as much as he liked and never gained an extra pound, I, on the other hand… Holmes used to say that it was a sign of domesticity.

My heart ached, I missed my companion fiercely.

What was Nicolas saying? I forced myself to listen.

“You told me that you were inescapably confined to this house, Watson.”

“Yes, Cartridge, and so I have been. This is the third day.” Hell, I could possibly break it down into hours and minutes. The list of things I missed, not alone the people…

“Excluding last night, you mean.”

“No. I was here last night too, tossing and turning in my bed about the thought of my ruin reputation,” I replied.

For a second I considered telling him everything, but my school friend made the decision for me, as he said: “John, see here, yesterday you prevailed unto my friendship by confiding in me matters which as a journalist I thought more than worthy of publication. Have I known that you would deceive me...?”

Affronted, I insisted: “Nicolas... you have my word: I was not deceiving you! I have not left this house since Monday afternoon.”

“So, you have a _twin brother_?”

I hadn’t seen Nicolas quite so emotional before, not even when he walked into me and a team mate of us, which had resulted in our breakup. It hadn’t been that we were exclusive – we were young after all – but it had been a blow, surely. I had felt bad afterwards, and it had been months until we reconciled. We had been friends, or, if I’ve been more honest, acquaintances ever since.

That Nicolas had rushed to Baker Street, twice so far, in such a state no less, seemed suspicious to me suddenly.

Did he still hold a torch for me?

Maybe he hoped that he could take over Holmes’ place?

A comforting shoulder, a gentle touch leading to more?

My reply to him echoed my inner state: “No, I do _not_.“

“Then, please, explain to me who the man outside the restaurant at Marylebone Station at five past midnight was?”

“I take it that he resembled me.” Nicolas was nothing like my Holmes, and if this twin brother of myself was real he could pair up with Nicolas. I didn’t mind.

“More than resembled. I do hope you’re truthful with me, John.”

I could see that he was still suspicious. Yet, my mind was in shambles.

While I knew that I should focus on the case and should wonder if his tale had an ounce of truth in it, I felt uneasy about Cartridge using my first name constantly. He should not have the privilege anymore.

Did I lead him on?

Hadn’t I made myself clear: the only man on earth who could call me by my name was Sherlock Holmes.

This case was an ugly and dangerous business, and the more I saw of it (or, not saw, to be accurate), the less I liked it.

It was like a puzzle, a big intricate puzzle. And it was like I only got the corner pieces, but a lot of middle pieces were missing, weren’t they? In fact, all of them. The one with main bits of the picture on. Where were those pieces? All I had got from Holmes were instructions, but not a box with a picture on the lid to refer to. At best, I got some pieces, bit by bit, from Cartridge and only in the aftermath from Holmes. God, I hate it. Little bits of puzzles everywhere!

And yet… my heart belonged to him.

We were the two puzzle pieces, fitting together. The rest would solve itself, somehow. I had to believe in our love, in us, in Sherlock Holmes.

“What happened”, Cartridge said, bringing me back to the present, “was that I was walking through the station and turned around a corner when I spotted you by the wall of the restaurant which by then was closed. You were talking to a man with a brown hat. I would have approached you but when I caught your eyes you acted as you would not know me. And I assumed that your conversation was of some importance. The more I thought about it the more I thought that it was a poor way to treat a good friend.”

Suddenly, the fog in my brain cleared away to a horrific clarity. My pulse picked up, could it be that I cracked it? That I, unassuming John Watson, has solved it all? Instantly, I went into action. It was almost as if I could hear my dear Holmes famous line, ‘The Game is Afoot’.

“Thank you for telling me this”, I said. “It is of the utmost importance. But Cartridge and I pray you won’t take this amiss; I must ask you to leave.”

“To leave?”

“Please, this is a fearful, serious business. There is real danger.” I put on my doctor voice, hoping that my excitement didn’t shine through. My Holmes always had relished in my thrill, calling it us ‘two against the rest of the world’, but others didn’t understand.

“You are not just trying to get me out of the way, Watson.”

“That is exactly what I am trying to do, Cartridge, but for a very good reason. Believe me; you will have your story.”

Nicolas Cartridge was a journalist, however, he only lived adventures as a bystander. We had been never alike, I realised belatedly.

“Very well, Watson. Very well.”

At the front door, he patted me on the shoulder. I did my utmost to not react and to give away anything. 

* * *

I shut the door on him and leaned against the wall trying to get my thoughts in order.

Holmes had instructed me not under any circumstances to trouble him again. In this situation, it was positively critical.

If Tobias Organ had hired some impersonator to look and sound so like me that even Nicolas Cartridge who had known me for years could be convinced, then Holmes might although be deceived and then what power they would have in their hands.

If I could not speak to Holmes, I could at least alert him by other means.

I ran upstairs with the idea of writing a note, which I could slip under the basement door. I would write something along the lines:

> Dear Holmes,
> 
> Something odd is going on. Please, be careful.
> 
> Love Watson. XXX

No, what was I thinking?

Just one kiss. I loved him and I wanted him to be safe, but I was still cross with him. No, one kiss would be suffice (at least, for now).

* * *

As I went downstairs again, I heard a cry from the street. Without thinking, I ran to the parlour window.

A hundred yards southwards along Baker Street three men were struggling. Two of them were bundling the third man into a cab against his will.

It was Cartridge.

I dashed down the stairs, ran into the street, the driver of the cab had already whipped up the horse.

I gave chase, furious and outraged. I pursued them for good a half a mile until eventually they outpaced me, and I stood, gasping for breath, outside St Vincent’s Church.

* * *

I sat on the pavement.

I needed Holmes’ help. The transgression of a broken promise was a trivial thing, surely, in the context of this impaling incident. I would go to him immediately.

Aware that in this haste of my pursuit I had left the front of the house open, a new anxiety overcame me. Clearly, this work of kidnapping was one of Organ’s ruffians and who has to say that they would not take advantage of an open door.

I rushed back to Baker Street, but the door was no longer open. On such a cold and windless day, I thought it unlikely that it would be closed by a draw.

The horrible thought occurred to me that someone might already be in.

Then everything seemed to tumble into place:

  * Cartridge’s abduction had intended to draw me out of the house so that the man masquerade as myself could gain entry.
  * Holmes would be unaware of this.
  * He would eventually open the door to the basement and believing it to be myself, he would be offered to be the easiest of targets.



I left the house without a key, but I knew that there was a possibility to access via the rear of the terrace.

This entailed my knocking at the door of our neighbour, Mrs Turner, an elderly, amiable woman who seemed happy to allow me access to the rear of the building.

Here I was obliged to scale a wall to our back of our own dingy basement; the front room being the one that Holmes had made into his makeshift laboratory.

There was no light within.

I opened the door with infinite slowness. The noises of Holmes’ experiment seemed to have stopped.

The door that connected this room with the front of the basement was six or seven short paces away. I tested each step before lowering my weight and moved with the floating motion of a rather overweight pantomime artist.

One, two, three, then there was movement behind me, a hand was clamped across my mouth, then an arm locked around my throat, the grip was expert, I could not breath or move.

A voice whispered: “Doctor, do not try it, I will release you and then slowly face me, you must not make a sound, tap my head if you understand.”

I reached up to the head and obediently I taped it. The arm released me and as quietly as I could I took a deep breath of air, and turning as I did so, “Lestrade!”

“Hush, yes, Doctor. Was not expecting you here. Or, rather in a sense, I was. It isn't you to come to the back entrance as well.”

The police officer smirked at this little joke.

Privately, I sent a quick thanks to heaven that Lestrade might be the best of the Yard, but still unaware of Holmes and my partnership. When this case was over, I would come to the back entry again as Holmes and I have had a preference since the beginning.

There is nothing more delicious than finally sodomizing the great detective to incoherence.

“Expect me? What on earth...?”

“Not now, doctor”, he said. “Glad, you did, sir. Additional pair of ears. Up close to the door now, please. It won’t be long.”

It was indeed less than a minute before we heard the door of the front of the house opening to the laboratory and the arrival of what sounded like two men.

The door was closed and then a gruff voice said: “Now, this is it?”

“Yes, this is where he is working.”

There was something familiar about that second voice.

“He won’t be back for a while?”

“Not for an hour, I should think.”

With a shock, I recognised the other voice: it was my own.

I turned to Lestrade again, but he just put his finger to his lips, indicating that I should continue to listen.

“So, what’s the plan then?” asked the gruff voice within.

“To match the bullet that killed Max Zimmermann with the one from your gun”, said my voice. “The police know that you killed him. But they need Holmes to provide them with the evidence that will convince a jury.”

Evidently, I thought, the gruff character is Tobias Organ. I heard him pace about and spit noisily: “Zimmermann is not the first I have topped. And they never got me yet.”

“They say that you only got four pound and ten shilling from him.”

“Never mind, why I got him. Anyway, I never killed him just for the money. I killed him because he gave me a bad look. He gave me a bad look and I gave him a bad headache. A bullet right between his eyes. Now, I still have this little problem...”

Suddenly there was a tremendous crash as if one of the walls had fallen in.

“In, we go, doctor!” said Lestrade and pushed the door and we rushed into the laboratory.

Inside I saw that the villian was now attacked by... myself.

A perfect duplicate of myself took a right hook, then a left hook, and then filled him a blow to the side of the head. Organ hit the floor like a sack of cabbages.

Lestrade was on him in flash, putting Organ’s arm behind his back. Lestrade blew his whistle and then proceeded to arrest him.

As I stood back to get a better look at my other self, the duplicate doctor put a hand to his own face, retched at his upper brow and pulled and stretched till he had removed his entire face. Revealing underneath the mask the flaming eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

The next moment Lestrade’s officers came bursting through the basement door and Tobias Organ was dragged away.

* * *

The heat of the day had given way to, at last, a pleasant evening.

Mrs Hudson had returned to Baker Street and provided Holmes and me with an excellent evening meal. It was a Sunday roast, and we praised her wholeheartedly.

We toasted to our return, and it was not only our housekeeper that got a bit misty-eyed. The wine was a rich red, one that had been gifted to us by Mycroft Holmes last month. Originally, Mrs Hudson’s plan had been to bring it out for Christmas, but today fitted as well.

When I sat in my chair by the fireplace later, I mused that it had been perfect.

At last, after days of solitude, Baker Street was our home again. Now, Holmes stood with his pipe at the open window where a gentle breath lifted the curtains and refreshed the parlour. All was well, or it would soon be.

Before we could retire to bed together, we had to address the elephant in the room. Unlike the other times I hesitated. Normally, I enjoyed Holmes’ dazzling solution to a case. He bathed in my praise as well, but we knew that today’s outcome would not be, “perfect“, “amazing” or “brilliant”.

Sherlock Holmes had solved the mystery but at what cost?

“As you have well deduced by now the object of the masquerade was to lure Organ somewhere, we could extract a confession from him by subterfuge.

“But your ballistic experiment,” I said. “Would they not be enough to convict him?”

“It’s a science only in the imagination,” Holmes said. “And even I am certain that one day it will be more than that, there is much more work to be done than I could accomplish in a fortnight. But Lestrade and I agreed that when Organ believed himself at a risk on my experiments, we would wish to destroy them.”

“What on earth were you doing in there, Holmes, when the complete thing was a hoax?”

“I am afraid that I deceived you a little. I was not in there all the time. The mechanism of an old railway clock gives the ear the impression of ongoing industry.”

“Well, it certainly deceived me,” I said. “But was it really necessary to me to be incarcerated for the duration?”

“I am afraid so, my friend. If Organ through one of his spies got wind that, the trick would not have worked two Watsons. What’s more it was necessary for him to believe that you and I had quarrelled and therefore a good Doctor Watson might be in the market for a bit of betrayal. Unfortunately your friend Cartridge saw me meeting Organ’s accomplice at Marylebone Station and almost let the cat out of the bag. It was necessary for me, for us, to put him somewhere safe. Lestrade’s men kindly subjected him to a temporal and comfortable form of kidnap.

“It was you who dragged him away?”

“Yes, even I had not calculated that you would follow him, but you would find yourself locked out and clambering in through the back, but it turned out well. You will make an additional witness for prosecution.”

“You think they will convict him?”

“Oh, yes, Watson. His confession today was as clear as a bell. Tobias Organ will hang.

* * *

In the soon-to-be published version, I penned down that Holmes offered me tickets to the opera as an apology.

Our outing to Gilbert & Sulivan's 'The Mikado' seemed like the perfect reconciliation. As it turned out, even Holmes had a soft spot for it. 

Oh, how much different this ending is from the real events!

At last, it's time to tell the true story...

tbc


End file.
